Curse Not the King (42 page)

He drank and gambled and spent his time in the fashionable salons; but occasionally he travelled back to Petersburg with a speed that was quite out of character for a frivolous idler, and Talleyrand had long marked him as a particularly clever Czarist spy.

He joined the group, which immediately made way for him, and bowed to the Colonel.

“The ladies always have a monopoly of you, Monsieur Tchernicheff, you shouldn't spoil them for their poor countrymen,” he said sourly.

The Russian laughed.

“Ah, no, Monsieur Talleyrand, it is I who am spoilt.… So much beauty! It is almost too much—even for a Russian!”

“We must discuss this further, my dear Colonel. Come and have a glass of wine with me. The ladies must dispense with you for a few moments; I assure you, they will appreciate you all the more.”

The two men walked away, Talleyrand limping slightly with his hands clasped behind his back.

Over his wineglass Talleyrand looked up at him.

“When do you expect to be in Petersburg next, Colonel?” he asked quietly.

The smile died on Tchernicheff's mouth. “Why … some time soon.”

The Minister wiped his lips with a lace handkerchief.

“When you do, I would like you to give a personal message to your Emperor. Tell him that I have the greatest admiration for him, and would be happy to serve him in any way I can.”

The Colonel's dark eyes were quite expressionless.

“I shall be delighted to deliver your message. And I know the Czar will be glad to receive it.”

“I am very anxious that he should,” Talleyrand replied. “You like Paris, Monsieur Tchernicheff?” he added.

“It's my second home, Monsieur. I adore it.…”

Talleyrand's green eyes were very cold.

“Then I shouldn't delay your visit to Petersburg much longer. The sooner you go, the sooner you can return,” he said. “Good evening Monsieur Tchernicheff. I have kept you from the ladies long enough. I fear they may never forgive me.”

Within a week Colonel Tchernicheff was on his way across Europe, travelling to Russia with what he believed to be the most valuable information he had ever discovered in his career. On arriving at St. Petersburg, he found that Alexander had gone to Fontanka Castle to stay with his mistress, Princess Naryshkin, and without wasting a night on sleep, Tchernicheff followed him there.

He had his audience in Marie's lavish boudoir, and thought slyly that the setting was not inappropriate; most of his work for Alexander took place in similar rooms, if not actually in bed.…

There he informed his Emperor, that for some mysterious reason of his own, Napoleon's Foreign Minister appeared ready to betray his master to the Russians.

CHAPTER THREE

In the months that followed, Alexander went out of his way to pay attention to his sister. He went to her apartments every day; took her out riding, dined with her, wrote her letters and gave her valuable presents. His whole conduct was an enigma to the Court who knew how treacherous the Grand Duchess was, and a deep anxiety to his friends. His Prime Minister Speransky begged him either to arrest Catherine or marry her off and send her out of Russia. She was a grave danger and the Czar shouldn't allow family feeling to influence him. As Speransky pleaded, he watched Alexander intently, unwilling to believe the foul gossip which was spreading through the Court.

Catherine was safe because he was in love with her, it was whispered. They were always together, shut up alone for hours in her rooms.… The Minister dismissed the story and supposed Alexander was trying to shame his sister out of intriguing against him. Speransky shook his head; if that were so, the Czar was wasting his efforts. That arrogant, ruthless creature was incapable of feeling; she would only despise her brother as a fool.

Alexander knew quite well what everyone was saying; the implication was horrible enough to tickle Catherine's monstrous vanity and he made the most of it. He understood her nature well, so well that he was sure she wouldn't be able to resist such a tribute to her charms. Her own brother had succumbed to her. If the idea kept her at bay for a little while, he was prepared to act the part.

So he flattered her and spoilt her, watching her become careless as her contempt for him increased.

He was an adept at concealing his feelings; even as a child he had lived behind a mask, a gentle, smiling mask, which enabled him to observe other people with absolute objectivity. His grandmother, Catherine the Great, had taught him the technique; he had lived with a doting old woman who delighted to play with him on the nursery floor, and discovered her to be a tyrannical nymphomaniac at the same time.

The paradox fascinated him; he studied her as he studied his father, that unpredictable, gloomy man, and learnt valuable lessons from both. His childhood had been marked by paradox. He was educated by the Swiss Liberal, La Harpe, and learnt principles directly opposed to the system on which Russian society was founded. He was taught to despise religion while outwardly conforming; to hate war and yet be able to drill his troops as efficiently as any Prussian. He was naturally sensitive, and while this was encouraged, he was exposed to a life that outraged sensitivity; he was deeply superstitious, but forbidden to believe in God. Catherine loved him and attempted to fashion his character in the unique mould of her own; as a result she turned her, grandson into a highly nervous, deceitful and isolated boy. In spite of it all, he had great courage, an implacable will and natural dignity. And when necessary, he could be ruthless as any of his savage forbears. But one event in his life shackled him. He had taken Paul's life, and the guilt of that crime made it impossible to murder Catherine Pavlovna too. He couldn't put her to death; something warned him that his sanity would never stand it; the humanist teaching of his youth and the muddled superstition inherent in him would not permit another blood murder, whatever anyone advised. So he fought his sister in his own way, pandered to her vanity, and watched her under the pretext of needing her companionship.

One afternoon they were together as usual, playing picquet in her apartments when she lowered her cards and said to him suddenly, “I've heard rumours that Napoleon may divorce his wife and wants to marry me. Is that true?”

She stared at him aggressively over the card-table. Alexander said casually, “Yes, the French Ambassador hinted something of the sort. Needless to say, I would not consider it.” He looked down at his cards again as if the subject was closed.

Catherine swallowed. “Why didn't you consult me?” she demanded.

“My dear sister, don't be ridiculous. Marry you to that vulgarian! I knew how angry you'd be at the mere suggestion. It's you to play.”

“I'm not playing any more! Why didn't you consult me? Have I no say in the matter of my own marriage?”

She swept her cards to the floor and got up; she was so angry she could scarcely speak. Bonaparte, the vulgarian she had so often denounced, was still the most powerful man in the world.… Marriage with Bonaparte … it could mean anything to an ambitious woman, a woman with royal blood to back her.… She'd heard the rumour and waited for Alexander to say something, till her patience exploded that afternoon. He had been approached and rejected it without a word to her. Damn him, she thought furiously. For what reason? Jealousy—or spite, perhaps.… Empress of France, with a claim to the throne of Russia. Oh, God, what an opportunity to miss!

“Alexander.” She leant on the table towards him. “I could be useful to you; think of it, your own sister in a position to see and hear everything! But he'd never turn on you again, not if he married me. He needs the royal blood for his dynasty, don't you see that? There'd be a Romanov ruling France one day; and if I did marry him, why Russia and France could rule the world together!”

“That was Father's dream,” Alexander said slowly.

“Why not?” she said eagerly. “He meant to achieve it by war, but we could do it through marriage. Alexander, listen to me. I should hate leaving you,” she said,” but it needn't be for ever. You could come to Paris, we could see each other.… Go to the Ambassador and tell him you've reconsidered.”

He smiled up at her. “Very well, my Catherine. If it pleases you.”

When he left her he was still smiling, but the smile was not pleasant. How well suited they would be, his sister, and Napoleon of France.

How warmly they would press him to visit them in Paris, as the Spanish Royal family had been invited to Bayonne, where Napoleon had solved their family differences by placing them all under arrest. He could see Catherine planning it, drafting the ukase proclaiming herself Empress of Russia with that terrible little man looking over her shoulder. Two souls united by ambition, and probably by passion too, for he knew Catherine and he had heard reports of Napoleon. He sent for the French Ambassador, Caulaincourt, and discussed details for the meeting which was soon to take place between himself and the French Emperor at Erfurt.

The interview lasted two hours and the Ambassador left it convinced of the sincerity of Alexander's friendship for his master, but no mention was made of any marriage.

Dmitri Naryshkin had given his wife his house on the island in the middle of the Neva. It was a beautiful setting for an idyllic love affair, comparatively small, staffed by servants picked for their self-effacement and discretion, and surrounded by magnificent grounds.

The Czar spent long periods there during the time he was preparing to travel to Erfurt for his second meeting with Napoleon, and he loved the house, isolated on the lovely island. It was completely informal; he lived there with his mistress like any country nobleman, and in the gentle pursuits of the day, he found great happiness.

He hurried to the islands to relax, to lie in bed till noon with Marie by his side, to read and drowse and forget for a few hours that his throne was insecure, his family treacherous and that the greatest war in European history was soon going to be fought. He had determined on war at Tilsit, determined to redeem himself and his country's honour if he lost his life in the attempt, and while the nobility seethed with discontent and trade languished under the embargo on English goods which he had promised Napoleon to enforce, Alexander had begun to build up his army. It was done in the secrecy that his vast country made possible, and so far no whisper of it had reached France. With every month his strength was growing in the field. He had kept his sister from open action, and he was now turning the rumour of Bonaparte's suit to good advantage after the interest she'd been foolish enough to display. He would never have allowed her to marry Napoleon, because such a marriage would mean the end of Russian independence, but he pretended to consider it, dangling the French crown in front of her covetous eyes to divert them from the one he wore himself. She had fallen into the trap, and was besieging him for permission. The story of her ambition to marry her country's deadly enemy had done a great deal to weaken her influence with the malcontents, while it enflamed them still more against the Czar. Not content with an alliance which was ruining the country's trade, he was going to Erfurt to become still more embroiled with France, even to discuss a marriage.… It was Marie who came to him one day and broke the unwritten rule that they should never discuss politics during their stay on the island.

He looked up from the book he was reading and held out his hand to her, thinking how fresh and beautiful she looked. She was dressed in white, which suited her dark hair and brilliant complexion, and as usual she wore no jewellery. He found the simplicity entrancing and she knew it; her perfect neck and shoulders needed no diamonds to enhance them; a single red rose pinned to her breast was her best ornament.

“Where have you been, beloved? When I woke up this morning you'd gone.”

She came and sat on the arm of his chair and kissed him, but her expression was grave.

“I awoke very early and didn't want to disturb you. Alexander, I've got to tell you something. My husband sent a messenger. I've been with him till a few moments ago. I know how you hate the outside world intruding on us while we're here, but you must let me tell you what Dmitri has heard in Petersburg. It's said that if you go to Erfurt you'll be either assassinated on your return or dethroned in your absence. The country will never permit a marriage between Napoleon and any of your sisters.”

“I have only one marriageable sister—Catherine. Anne is still too young. And while I have every intention of finding a husband for Catherine before long, it will never be Napoleon! What else is being said?”

“That your Prime Minister Speransky is a traitor, that he wants peace with France and intends to liberate the serfs.”

“Speransky is an honest man, my dear, and an able one. But his policies are not necessarily mine. Go on.”

She turned to him quickly. “I could talk like this for hours! But you know it, you must! You have the Secret Police; don't they keep you informed? Alexander, for the love of God, don't test your fate too far. Ever since you met that Corsican devil, your life has been in danger here, and as long as you go on treating with him, making a friend of his Ambassador, spitting in public opinion's face, you'll never be safe. They'll kill you as they killed your father!”

The moment the words were spoken she turned pale with horror. “Forgive me, I didn't mean …”

“I killed my father,” he said, and his voice was suddenly harsh and strained. “I killed him. There was no ‘they'.… The responsibility is mine, as it will be my successor's, if anything happens to me. God help me … I can never forget it.”

“You must protect yourself,” she whispered. “What's done is done. Arrest your sister.”

“No!” he shouted and sprang up. “No, arrest would have to mean death. My father and my sister.… No, not even I can order that! Even now the shadow follows me; I dream of it, I see them strangling my father, jumping on his body to drive out the soul, the brutes, savages!… I hear his footsteps. Oh, Jesus,” he muttered, “I've got to rule to justify myself, but I can't kill to do it. But no one knows that. If Catherine or Constantine knew it, even my mother, any of them, if they knew, my life wouldn't be worth a kopeck. But they don't, they think that if they went too far I'd do what has always been done. Only you know that I can't.”